Smoke from a half-dozen pipes slowly spirals and collects in the recesses of the heavily-timbered ceiling. The warm brown of the wood and plaster, offset by the stark soot-stains left by the many brightly lit torches, remind one of the warmth and comfort of home. Encouraging those outside to enter, and those inside to stay. Stay and have another drink, or seven.
This evening found the main room of the inn more busy than usual. The chill outside coming off the water made minds turn from the thought of extended labor, to a night of leisure and enjoyment. Many and more sought company here, and why shouldn't they? The little sign out front, gently swaying in the chilly breeze, proudly proclaimed in vivid red lettering Any Port.
And in a storm who has the will to be picky? Not that the establishment didn't deserve it's patrons. Here the ale was dark, the stew thick, and the two human waitresses look-some, pleasing to the uncritical eye. No, the Inn was perfectly normal, pleasant, and tonight, boisterous. Wholly remarkable in it's utter unremarkableness.
The evenings crowd at Any Port was the usual plus some. Humans and Dwarves and Halflings shared tables and laughed together. In the corner a small group of men rolled dice, taking turns yelling out in victory. Near the fireplace a Dwarf in custom armor sat with three street urchins, two human children and what looked to maybe be a half-elf child. Though it was hard to determine, due to the excess of caked dirt on the young ones face.
At the bar a lone Gnome waves for the bartenders attention as a group of rowdy looking sailors walk in through the oaken double-doors. One of the salty lot casts a dirty look at the table of urchins, but moves along with his friends. The group moves to a mostly empty table, filling all but the one chair already taken up by a young Dwarven Ranger. They call for food and drink and begin talking animatedly with one another and any who happen to hear them.
The wind outside picks up and softly howls against the window pane drawing the attention of a Dwarven Quaesitor. He glances out at the cold night, and then turns back to his drink, listening to those around him.
The Dwarven bartender is finally able to take the Gnomes order. The group of sailors continue to joke and laugh, slightly louder than the rest of the crowd. Though Sour-Look continues to occasionally glare at the children and their Dwarven minder. One of the dice-rollers scores an especially large pot to his delight, and dismay of the others.
And the inn almost seems to itself, sigh with contentment.
Fizkin sweeps the cup off the bar the second it leaves the barman's hand, and, in one fluid motion, dumps the contents down his gullet: a surprising feat for such a small being; it was a full pint after all.
"Thank you, beer fairy! Now tell me of those men at dice. Any of them got an extra quick eye or a short temper?"
Noting the large group entering the crowded bar, the dwarf knight asks one of the children to pull the last seat at their table open.
“Thank you. Thinking of others doesn’t cost a copper, see?” he adds. He highly doubted anyone would actually take the seat; it was more his wish for the street urchins to learn a bit of decency while he was here.
An amused smile is almost concealed beneath Togril’s heavy beard and mustache as he watches the gnome vie for the barman’s attention, and then empty a tankard in one swig. Reminds me of my shield-brother, Kragg. Not bad for a little guy.
A few moments later he notices the surly looks from one of sailors, but the dwarf shows no concern. Let him frown, though Torag help me if he rallies his friends to start trouble. The dwarf knight glances at the nearby hearth, and lets his eyes wander bit farther to his shield that leans against the wall behind his seat. Resting his thick arms onto the table, Togril peers into the bowls of the three children around him. Seeing as they are not yet finished, he idly looks over the crowd, careful to avoid the eyes of the salty grumpus.
And they say one is hard pressed to find good company while on the road. Looking from the new additions to his table and back to the near-empty pint in his hands. "They" may be wiser than they know. As he looked about the room, Sorn could not help but notice the dwarf seated with the three children who seemed to have a hard learned understanding of life on the streets and a very in-depth relationship with dirt. Very in-depth, indeed. Still, it is good to see someone taking responsibility for the children that I could have been. Taking the last pull of ale that his pint had to offer, Sorn rose to his feet and headed to the bar, glad for a reason to escape his recently endured "company". Upon getting the attention of the bar keep, he nodded to his pint and said with a smile "I'll have another, as well as a bowl of whatever those children are eating."
"Hey beardy! Fizkin says to Sorn, "I was talking to the barkeep. Mind your turn stumpy!"
Tyro glanced ruefully at the noisy gnome at the bar. Typical. Rude, likely drunk, and certainly intending disorder. Hmph. He takes a slow small pull from his drink and examines the bar again. Few of the patrons here would be worth influencing, they would likely not go out and change their communities substantially. He lets his gaze linger for a while on the dwarf seated with the children. He takes care of the young. This could be good, or it could be bad. What is his intent? To corrupt or to guide? Finally making up his mind, Tyro rises, lifts his drink, and moves to the vacant chair at the table. "Hail, sir. Mind if I join you at this table?"
Casting a glance at the gnome to his left, Sorn nods to the empty pint in front of the small stranger "Surely you can understand the problem of an empty glass." Looking again to the bar keep "Fill his drink as well," placing a few extra coppers on the bar, "no sense in having two empty pints on the bar". Looking at the gnome " My apologies for... stepping out of turn."
"No apology required from a dwarf with coin enough to supply a drink for this handsome, thirsty gentleman."
Fizkin flashes his best friendly smile.
"How about some bread and butter while you've got your coin to hand?" says the gnome while indicating the empty seat beside him at the bar.
With an inward sigh to himself, Sorn seats himself beside the gnome " Aye, that sounds good enough." he says, giving the added coin to the barman. A gnome with a taste for other people's coin, who knew? Still, better company than a table full of drunken sailors. Casting a quick glance across the room and noticing the most recent addition to the charitable dwarf's table, he turns his gaze back to the gnome at his side, "My name's Sorn, by the way."
Sir Togril coolly regards the dwarf for a moment.
Relaxing somewhat, he gestures vaguely. “The seat is open, fellow dwarf.”
He looks to the children, “These lads were just finishing their dinner. You three, the room upstairs is the second on the left. Sleep well, and if I do not see you in the morning, stay safe and respect the town guards.”
He waits a moment as the homeless youth rise from the table and make for the stairs. The dwarf knight meets the other dwarf’s eyes. “So what business brings you to Port Ilan?”
"Thank you Sorn. This bread and butter does the trick. What say I order us some stew since you seem to be in coin?"
The gnome blinks. "Do you not know who I am?"
No, I do not know who you are. If I did, I would not have asked. By my beard,I should have ordered my drink and my stew from one of the barmaids... "for us", I did not know someone's stomach was considered to be a separate person. "I suppose some stew would be nice with the bread, but after that I must, unfortunately, save my last few silvers for a trip that I shall soon be taking. If I were to spend too much more, I might have to take up a gambling habit" he said with a glance back to the men playing at dice, seeing also the newly vacated seat "and I am no good with dice." That seat looked nice. It also looked free. Free... "Unfortunately, my time spent in wilderness training hasn't allowed me much time to familiarize myself with the people worth knowing. I take it you are someone renowned?" 'Knowing' and 'avoiding' are similar concepts, right? If I have been feeding some wealthy noble-born freeloader... he flashed a friendly, yet curious smile as some entertaining thoughts crossed his mind.
A large longshoreman sitting to Fizkins right lets out a loud guffaw at the Gnomes short-lived outburst. "The little one has a fire in his belly Hamn!" He slaps a meaty hand on the singers shoulder while simultaneously dropping a handful of gold coins on the bar-top. "You can keep your coin master Dwarf, it was a good week and I feel like celebrating."
With a deft hand Hamn the bartender swipes the two flagons and the mans gold and smiles broadly at the three before him. Filling the two containers he swings back around, sets the drinks down, and leans heavily on the bar smiling at the little Gnome. "Dem t'ree?" He nods over at the dice rollers. "Aye, t'ey're a goud lot. The skinny one's James Edmind, never did see a coin he couldn't lose." The Dwarf points a fat finger at the man next to "James". "T'e greasy one's called Slim, got a f'st tongue but 'es 'onest."
He shifts his weight and leans back on the balls of his feet finally gesturing to the big hulk of a man perched on the edge of a stool two times too small for him. "T'at uns W'ilfred. Nicest man ye ever meet, little slow mind ye. Gentle giant I believe is t'e word. W'ooo t'ough if'n 'e ever even gets t'e idea t'at somebody be playing 'im false, well I'll just say I've met Orcs more forgivin' t'an t'at one." Slapping both palms on the bar he smiles again and moves on to care for other customers.
Over at the Rangers recently vacated table the boisterous group of sailors continue their merry-making. Sour-Look watches as the urchins make their way up the stairs, and translates his dour look from them to the two Dwarves by the fireplace. Turning to his friends he speaks up, louder perhaps than truly needs be. "Never thought I'd see the day when tipped-ears would dine with the likes of gentle folk!" A couple of his friends laugh, some nearby patrons turn and look, one or two nodding. But by and large the tavern ignores the loud words.
Back at the bar the large dock-worker looks over Fizkins head at the Ranger. "So, what brings you to our fair city eh? Wine? Money? Women? All three?! HAAA!" He smiles with the smile of the inebriated.
"My thanks." He chuckles and smiles as the children leave, then turns back to his table-mate. "My business is wandering and learning. Making coin where I can at whatever odd jobs present themselves. There's always work to be done, people to help, order to be repaired..." He pauses as he finished his sentence, then looks to the other dwarf. "And yourself? This is a busy town, much work to be done."
Togril sends a sideways look to the loud sailors before answering the dwarven wanderer. “Much work indeed. My practical trade is a blacksmith, but my true calling is a servant for Torag, the Father Creator, and his creations. On ceremony, I am called Sir Togril Emberforge, Apprentice Guardian of the Forge, but I prefer ‘Togril’ for when the pomp can be avoided. I was recently knighted, and likewise I look to give peace, justice, and healing to those in need of it. Do you have a name, wanderer?”
As he waits for a reply, he gets the attention of one of the serving girls and gestures for two ales.
He nods and smiles. "A good business for a Dwarf, a good calling to obey. My name is Tyro," he lowered his voice so it would not be likely to be overheard at other tables before continuing, "And I too am bound in service to a god, though I am bound to Abadar. I serve as a force against chaos. I suppose my full title is Quaesitor Tyro Bane-Edge, but Tyro is preferred. Less... conspicuous." He grins a little, then glances back over to the gnome at the bar. "Noisy bastard. Seems pleasant enough, but he lacks order and direction. Hmph." Tyro harrumphs into his beard and finishes the last bit of his ale in anticipation of a new cup.
"I am kind of a big deal." Fizkin says to Sorn. Just then, the barman speaks up.
"Thank you for the information and the ale barkeep." He nods his head at Sorn. "And thank you Sorn, for the meal. You have the honor of feasting the rising greatness that is Fizkin NobleJinx: rhapsodist, magician, heart throb, supplicant, and of noble birth to boot!"
Fizkin is standing on his stool by the end of his soliloquy. He flops back down as he adds. "...and you probably thought nothing exciting would ever happen to you."
The gnome smiles inwardly at the gift he could make of himself to this humble Dwarf.
Taking a swig of ale at the wrong time, Sorn, stares at the group of sailors with great distaste and then looks at the two dwarves across the way, giving the first a small nod with a quick glance of his eyes toward the offending seafarers. Looking back to his present company, a sudden expression of shock playing across his face IS HE STANDING ON THE STOOL?! fighting back both laugh and smile, the dwarf lowers his gaze in mock humility "A thousand apologies for not recognizing you sooner! I had heard rumor of a gnome with a voice so great that even a priestess would forsake her vows for the chance at a single night in his company, but I had no idea that I would have the honor of meeting that same gnome in person! If you would pardon me for but one moment, good sir!" That should feed his ego for a bit. "A big deal", funny choice of words. I suppose it can't be said that the little singer isn't entertaining, though. Moving closer to the dock-worker, so as to avoid having to speak over his new gnome friend "Much thanks," raising his pint, " here's to a good week!" Taking a healthy swig and wiping the froth from his mustache "I originally came to prepare for my final test as an apprentice of ranger Curran. The way he figures, if I can survive in the wilderness on my own for at last a year, there's no sense in calling me an apprentice. Tonight, however, I am here to enjoy good drink and good company", saying the last part with a smile. " I'm glad to say I found it, too", nodding to the man and to the gnome behind him. "I was staring to think that the folks in this town were unwelcoming", he said with a look to the sailors.
The red-headed waitress with the wide hips sashays her way through the room balancing two steins on a wooden tray. Placing them down on the rough-hewn table she smiles at the two dwarves before moving on to other patrons.
Chuckling quietly at the inattentive Gnome the sailor turns and directly faces the Ranger. Meeting the raised pint with his own salute he downs it's contents in a single go before slamming the now empty flagon on the bar top. Huge smile again taking his face he thrusts a large hand at Sorn proclaiming; "Names Dendoren, son of Fen." Following Armadorns gaze back to the rowdy sailors his smile, almost impossibly, gets even bigger. "Oh you're talking about the crew of the Wave-Skipper aren't you? Don't worry about them, they don't mean much harm. Mostly good fellas, just been having a bit of luck these past months. The Skippers Skipper, HAAA! He takes a moment to laugh at his own joke. "Is fond of trading along the coastal routes between here and the Land of Arberan. Some of that is dangerous waters you know, they get hit by Elven pirates from time to time. Puts the crew in a bad mood, but they're decent folk for the most part." Dendoren motions for another round before continuing. "Anyway, don't let a few bad oranges spoil the bucket! Tonight is for merriment!" Standing he raises his drink and turns to the full room shouting "FOR MERRIMENT!" Punctuating the sentiment with another long draw.
The wind outside almost seems to answer in kind as again it redoubles its efforts. A loud knocking can be heard as a near tree branch begins to jab at one of the windows. Hamn motions to the red headed girl and she sets about closing the shutters and restocking the fire. The tap-tapping patter of rain joins the singing of the wind outside the closed doors.
Togril chuckles at the gnome, but nods in partial concession to Tyro’s comment. “True, though I’ve noticed most of the gnomish folk are very excitable. I think it is just their way, but I am no expert on their kind.” He warmly thanks the lass for the ale, and runs his hand over his brown beard. A Quaesitor? Hm…”
“The Master of the Vault and the Master Craftsman have much in common, though I would advise you to temper your judgment with understanding, perhaps even compassion. Make no mistake, I commend your mission –too many folk are hurt by lawlessness, and it is dwarves like us that must stand between the weak and the purveyors of chaos and evil.”
The young knight holds up his tankard for Tyro to toast. “To healing, and order.”
"Much thanks, my friend. I will do my best to keep your advice. May all your weeks be as good as this one!" Raising his flagon to the sailor's toast and emptying the rest of its contents, the young dwarf turns his attention back to the gnome, "So, what brings you to this inn, tonight?" he asked, also keeping an eye out for the recently ordered round by the cheerful sailor to his right. "I mean, a famed individual such as yourself must get tired of dining with" he raised a hand at the general population within the bar,"common folk, such as us" he said with enough humor in his voice to mask the sarcasm at his final words.
Tyro smiles and raises his glass in acknowledgement. "To healing, and order." He drinks deeply from his tankard, then pauses to reflect on Togril's words. "Understanding and compassion are important, but they can't come at the cost of order. Obviously some disorder is unavoidable, but too often we allow those perpetrating the chaos within our societies to go unchecked, leading to further harms and lawlessness. As you say, we must stand up for those who cannot bring order and control into their own lives, and protect them against those who would disrupt and exploit them."
He pauses again to think, before continuing, "Compassion is not something we are taught in our studies. We are encouraged to understand why chaos exists, and who those who choose to embrace it do so. There will always be those who prefer lawlessness to order, but each of us has the opportunity to protect the order which hold up our society, and encourage development, knowledge, and culture among our people."
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"Nay Sorn, nay. I can see why you might get confused. Allow me to enlighten you. The upper orders must do what the can to enrich the lives of the destitute and downtrodden. I am a champion for the common man and I do all I can to let him see my splendor that he might be inspired to better himself!"
"Hang around longer Mr. Dwarf I might have some good effect on you."
Fizkin winks and motions to the barkeep to refill his mug and that Sorn would be happy to pay for it.
The servant of Torag carefully weighs Tyro’s words. He taps his side where his warhammer hangs from his belt. “One of my mentors in the temple, the Chief Blacksmith, always said: A hammer has the power to create and destroy. I cannot forsake my power to mend, when destruction would be so wasteful. I think the difference between what you and I uphold, is that some folk, when confronted with the law, should be given the opportunity to change. But please,” Togril smirks, “do not liken my idea of compassion to the degree of leniency from the Caliean priests, who require one night’s abstinence as penance for wrongdoing.”
He glances at the gnome by the bar and his grin widens “Though surely that would be torture enough for some of us.”
"Ah, a noble cause for a noble gnome!" He says with a wink. "I must say, when I first heard such rumors, I found it hard to believe such a being existed. To find myself in such legendary company, I find it hard, if you are so gracious as to comply, not to request hearing a song. Truly, as a lowly and humble dwarf, a song from you would make what could be my last night in civilization a night truly worth boasting about!" all of which he says with a look that could not seem more star struck if he set his beard ablaze with one of the torches along the wall. Lets see how the 'good-fellas' from the Wave-Skipper like a song.
Tyro chuckles and nods. "I do not claim that the first reaction should be to destroy. If a man can be brought to order, that is a superior solution. But many embrace chaos and refuse to change; they must be removed." He shrugs and shakes his head. "But such serious discussion can wait for another time, for now we have drink." He raises his tankard in a salute, and takes another drink.
Sir Togril flexes his ears as he strains to hear the conversation on the other end of the room. Unfortunately between the banter, cheering, patter (from the foot of a rather nervous looking Halfling), and jeering, not even mentioning the mounting storm pounding and pressing against the building, he cannot.
Speaking of the pressing and pounding of the storm, anyone in the main hall can easily make out the sounds of the now-driving rain and howling wind. The solidly built inn moans and creaks with each successive gust of the especially nasty gale. The patrons around the room mostly seem to be ignoring it, but a sharp eye would notice Hamn the bartender looking towards the main doors after each shudder.
"HAAA! I think I like this one!" The big longshoreman laughs again listing to the impetuous and fast talking Gnome. "Hamn, another round for my friend," He gestures to Sorn. "And my friends friend!" He gestures to Fizkin. "It's pissing rain out there, let's drive it off by getting pissed! HAAA!"
Togril nods and follows suit in gulping down his ale. After several moments, he sets the tankard down and wipes his face. He looks to the dwarf across the table apologetically. “As much as I would like to continue, this drink must be my last. Until Torag guides me otherwise, I must work the forge for my bread.”
He stands and empties his cup. After setting it down along with a few coins, he offers an arm to clasp in departure to Tyro. “Perhaps I will see you later. If you leave town tomorrow, stop by the forge near the docks where I work. It was refreshing to meet a like-minded kinsman.”
The young knight picks up his shield and turns for the stairs.
Tyro nods and clasps Togril's arm. "It has been a pleasure, sir. At the very least, I'd love to see the craftsmanship in your metalwork. I have no doubt you'll be seeing me again soon." He settles back in his chair, watching Togril walk away. A stroke of good luck. He could perhaps be a valuable ally in my quest for order. At the very least, he should be a good blacksmith, so that's valuable. He idly turned to look at the gnome again, shaking his head. I've half a mind to see how fair I could get a sock down his throat, but I doubt that'd help shut him up much. With a snort and a shake of his head, Tyro turned back to his drink, taking a long, deep draught of his ale.
,
The holy knight trudges up the wooden steps, noting that the noise from the bar below is dimmed, but not as much as he hoped. As he passes the room holding the three street urchins, he leans close to the door and listens. Satisfied they were asleep, he walks to his own room and closes the door. After a few minutes of prayer, he removes his scale mail and lays it against the door. He rests with his shield and hammer beside his bed, the muscles in his arms tired from the forge.
"A noble sentiment Dendoren! One with which I wholeheartedly agree!"
Fizkin slams another pint and turns his gaze back to Sorn.
"You want a song? Very well!" he say and with a flourish, produces a golden lute!
The noble gnome riffs mightily on the strings and wails a spirited song about a ridiculous ship with impossible cargo that met an improbable end.
The crowd immediately recognizes the tune and begins to sing along with the little bard. Though amid the drunken slurring and off tune harmonies it actually starts to sound something more like this. Regardless, young Noblejinx himself plays flawlessly and is met with a resounding chorus of drink offers upon completion. Offers for him, his Dwarven companion, and the burly dockworker who sang most enthusiastically by his side.
Upstairs Emberforge tries to sleep, but between the dual cacophonies of the downstairs revelry and the raging storm above he finds such a prospect difficult. When he does eventually doze off his mind is met with strange dreams. The oddest of which had something to do with a rather stout warrior woman attempting to teach him the basic tenets of grammar (geez, what a weirdo).
Bane-Edge, from his place by the fire, has his ears assaulted by the raging din of drunken singing. But this doesn't dull his vision, and he is more than able to spot the looks of worry from Any Ports proprietor. Even sitting so far from the main doors he can still hear that the storm has not abated in the least, nay it may even be getting worse.
Meeting the cheering of the crowd alongside Fizkin, the already tipsy Dendoren calls out to the bar-tending Dwarf. "Looks like my good week just got better! Another round and keep them coming! HAAA!" He waves a think arm behind his back at the bustling room. "They're paying! HAAA!"
Hm. This storm seems to worry even the proprietor. This is concerning. He rises from his table and makes his way over to the bar. He signals to the bartender, trying to draw him to a slightly quieter edge of the bar so they can potentially converse. "Hail, sir. I cannot help but notice your concern over this storm... Do you think it will cause trouble? Is there any way I can help forestall this trouble before it grows?"
A broad smile plays across the young dwarf's face. Well, arrogant he may be, but he didn't lie when he said he could sing! Catching a glimpse of the storm through one of the windows across the hall, the reality of what the next day held reminded him of what was to come. Aye, perhaps hung over and tired may not be the best way to begin my test... Clapping Fizkin on the shoulder, "My friend, you have indeed made this night a boast worthy thing! I must, however, call it a night and get some sleep. If you're ever in need of a ranger or guide as you travel, I'd be happy to be of assistance." Turning his attention to Dendoren, "Next time I am in this town, I will pay for your drinks!" With that, the young ranger climbs up the stairs, finds his room, and tries to fall asleep.
Finally feeling the wine and ale clash in pitched battle at the end of his song, Fizkin sways slightly on his stool as Sorn bids him a goodnight.
"A wise suggestion my friend, I believe I will to bed as well."
"Barkeep! Your best room! My good friends..." He sweeps his hand across the crowd of men ready to buy him drinks. "will be happy to pay for it."
Grabbing the two fresh drinks placed before his new-found friends Dendoren Son of Fen smiles around the rapidly draining flagon at his lips, waving the two on their way. It's easy to tell he enjoyed their company and felt that he was the one who came out on top from their interaction, however brief.
Hamn the Bartender pokes his head up from behind the bar to see who was addressing him. The concerned look on his face swiftly changes to one of confusion, and then comprehension as he understands what the strong-looking Dwarf was offering. "E'? O' aye! It be blowin' pretty strong tonig't!" He wipes his hands on the front of his rough-spun apron and leans heavily on the bar. "'Aven't seen a storm dis bad in quite soom time. You wanna help? 'ere follow me!"
The tubby little Dwarf motions for one of the girls to stand at the bar as he waddles his way across the main room, signalling that Tyro should follow him. Opening a side door he makes his way down a short flight of steps into a slightly warm, and slightly damp cellar. Pulling a torch from a wall sconce he talks over his shoulder as he moves to the back of the room. "Ye see, last big storm we 'ad was aboot a year ago, maybe two, I cannaug' remember. Anyway, it was a fierce 'un tore me roof nearly all t'e way off! 'Ad it fixed o' course. Even installed some fancy drain pipe t'ingies, 'elp keep water outta t'e upper rooms." He reaches the end of the room and starts looking through some shelving of odds and ends, picking out items one at a time. "T'ing is dem pipes is awful finicky sumtimes, tend to s'ake in even a wee breezy."
Finding the last bit of what he was searching for, the diminutive inn-keeper straightens with a groan. Turning to face the Quaesitor he presents an armful of dilapidated boards, handful of rusty nails, and a heavy stone-hammer. "A'm a wurried dem pipes mig't break in t'is squall. You wanna help? A' need sumone ta reinforce t'em before t'ey go and break on me." The Dwarf holds out the supplies with an innocent look, hopeful smile on his face.
Tyro follows Hamn, and listens to him speak. When he finishes, and fully understands what the bartender is asking, he nods and thinks for a few moments. "The dwarf who I sat with, Togril. Which room is he staying in? I could use his help on this, to ensure we do the best job possible." He smiles and waits for a response, looking around the basement while he waits.
The Quaesitor sees a mildly dank cellar. Dirt floor, wooden beams, poorly set stone (which is odd in a town with so many Dwarves, but not suspicious). Nothing strikes him as truly out of the ordinary, though there are a handful of fist-sized holes down near where the dry goods are stored.
As far as Bane-Edge can tell the fat little Dwarf speaks true and is in no way beguiling.
Confusion once again clouds Hamns eyes and just as quickly he remembers. "O' ya mean t'e stern looking fellow? Wants ta feed t'e streets? Sure now, I t'ink 'es in t'e fart'est room on t'e rig't." His smile grows as he begins to make his way back to the main room. Setting the supplies on a barrel at the base of the stairs he turns and addresses Tyro once more before returning to his duties. "A'll leave t'e stoof 'ere fer w'en yoor ready. T'ank you kindly fer 'elping an old Dwarf! Tis gurtly apper-shated!" And with that he ascends.
"It is a pleasure to set things to right, sir." He spends a few moments examining the pipes, then moves to find the room which Togril is in. Making his was upstairs, he finds the indicated room relatively easily. He knocks on the door, and calls through the wood, "Togril, are you still awake? I have a problem you might be able to help me with." He steps back from the door, and waits for a response or some sign of life from within.
Bane-Edge hears a grumbled murmur and a few heavy thuds before Sir Togril pulls the door open wide, in nothing but an armored kilt, a brown sweater, and his shield strapped onto his arm. No, wait, that is not a sweater, it is chest hair, and lots of it. He blinks a second before recognizing the Quaesitor. “What.”
He groggily grumbles, somewhat embarrassed, “A problem? Here? Sure, I’ll help.”
He closes the door abruptly and emerges minute later fully armored and his warhammer at his side. “So, problem? Are those sailors making trouble? I knew I should’ve given them a talking to.”
His scale mail clinks as he rolls his shoulders and sighs.